


Fire Weather

by tooralooryeaye



Series: Quite Frankly [2]
Category: Frank Ocean (Musician), Hanson (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Backstage, Bars and Pubs, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Consensual Infidelity, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friends With Benefits, Hanson - MOE Era, Interracial Relationship, Los Angeles, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Porn with Feelings, Rare Pairings, Smut, Sweat, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooralooryeaye/pseuds/tooralooryeaye
Summary: There's nothing like L.A. in autumn when the winds are hot and embers are burning.





	1. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion. It's been too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **editing note:** unfortunately, I had a big technical snafu when editing part two, so you will notice a few errors. These will be fixed in time.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/158117005@N03/28131648598/in/dateposted-public/)

 

 

* * *

 

 

The leather jacket might have been overkill. Frank had forgotten the autumnal Santa Ana winds. Unlike summer, when the winds remained still and the concrete eventually cooled after the sun dipped below the mountains, the katabatic gusts showed no mercy. High pressure collided with low humidity and sloped downhill toward the city, setting it in a pressure cooker.

Midnight approached. Several dozen fans still milled about behind the venue, changed into flip-flops and t-shirts. Most sat on the ground, tired and happy from the show. Phones cast their faces in blue light, dried sweat plastering loose bangs and thin shirts to their sticky skin.

Perhaps, in other cities, the presence of someone like himself would cause, at least, a minor commotion.

But not in Los Angeles. Known faces and American sweethearts were common appearances at any event, even happy hours at dive bars.

A few phone cameras shuttered, but for the most part, Frank was waved up to the stage door with a few simple hellos.

Frank licked his lips and swallowed. He flicked through weeks-old texts.

**Hey man how u doin, u in town soon?**

_Franko! Would love 2 see u. I think oct. 22. U free?_

**Pretty sure. U have a show? Ill stop by after?**

_Zacs bday. Come by around 1130. If i can sneak out, would love to catch up._

**Aight man. See you soon.**

Frank raised his hand to knock at the door and was overcome with a sudden sense of irony. Taylor had talked about their fan culture in the past, its selective and exclusionary nature, but he couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of having to ask for permission to see Taylor. As if Frank wasn't on his own echelon a few steps above them. The dark-skinned man skipping the line ahead of a sea of alabaster women, calling in a favor to a C-lister when Frank himself was, begrudgingly, an A-lister was not an irony lost on him.

Eyes with smeared liner swiveled toward him as he knocked.

**hey man. I'm here. Back door. Save me from the groupies pls?**

He swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to look back at the lineup of fans. They waited politely, chatting amongst each other, comfortable with camping out on aged asphalt. Their hormones hung heavy in the air; nothing superseded their beloveds.

At long last, the door heaved open with loud squeaks. A curly-maned, barrel-chested man answered the door. He grinned wide and immediately extended a hand. Something familiar clicked in the back of Frank’s mind.

In the green room, the scent of a kretek lingered. It dulled the edge of the unmistakable musk of "fresh off the stage and unshowered."

Frank stood in the doorway, dumbly staring at everyone else in the room, looking for his friend. Everyone else was looking at him, distracted from their conversation, slipping into silence, save for beer bottles shattering several rooms away as bartenders shut down for the night.

A large hand clapped on his shoulder and severed the tension. Frank startled but bit his tongue to stop himself gasping. The other hand immediately followed on his opposite shoulder and squeezed.

"Franko!"

He could _hear_ the smile on Taylor's voice behind him. Taylor turned Frank around with a tug and pulled him into an embrace. He fought the urge to bury his face into Taylor's neck. He instead inhaled slowly, relishing his fresh application of cK One.

Zac and Isaac's conversation hung uncomfortably in the air, stale and unrelated to Taylor's enthusiastic greeting. Frank had not even had a chance to say hello.  

Frank pulled away just before it became too uncomfortable and returned Taylor's smile.

"Hey," he breathed.

Taylor's eyes flashed and the outer corners tightened. If he noticed Frank's reticence, he said nothing.

Taylor squeezed Frank's shoulders again, beaming ear to ear. "It's so good to see you."

Frank knew he meant it.

In a perfect world, Frank would have had a smooth response, could have at least returned it with a "You too, man," but words escaped him. He had never been able to resist—or conquer—Taylor's radiance. Whether the glint of mirth in his eyes arrested his thoughts, or when a corner of his mouth curled in mischief, Frank could never find any reason to feign anything else around him.

Frank licked his lips. He suddenly understood how much he had in common with all the white girls waiting outside.

He gripped Taylor's forearm and returned the smile. "It's been too long, man."

Taylor's eyes flicked down to Frank's lips. “Yes.”

"Listen," he started and gestured toward a mini fridge tucked in the back corner. "I don't want to keep the fans waiting outside, and we have a party to start. Hang out here for a bit. We usually go all together but we'll take turns," he winked at Zac. "Let the birthday boy get a few in before he's turned over to the cougars."

Zac pulled a face. Taylor didn't see the bird flipped at his back when he slipped out of the room.

Clanking glass and the refreshing hiss of beer bottles being opened gave Frank an out he didn't know he needed until that moment. A quick dudebro nod and a couple of sips—if awkward—were a welcome reprieve for the elephant standing on Frank's chest.

Isaac spoke first, gushing about Frank's work—the usual slobber-mouthed drivel he received from white men who didn't know any better. All the same, he found it difficult to dislike Isaac; even for his predictable assessment and evaluation, his passion was infectious. Charming.

Frank nodded politely when it was appropriate, offering shy smiles and shrugs and mumbles of “Thanks man, glad you like it. Thank you.”

It wasn't until Isaac repeated himself that Frank realized he'd breached a specific topic.

"Man, we use a lot of metaphor in our songs," he'd said, chortling over his Rolling Rock. "But the dichotomy in Chanel is a whole other level we can't touch."

His warm eyes glowed with sincerity. The arch in his brow communicated something else entirely.

"I know you and Tay go way back. He loves wordplay. I'm sure you could teach him a thing or two."

Frank shrugged again and chugged from his own bottle. The bitterness stung his throat.

Zac had remained silent, smirking over his Redbull and mostly playing on his phone. Despite both he and Isaac's rich brown eyes, Zac's held a limpid quality  that piqued the hairs on his neck when he settled his gaze on Frank.

They both knew exactly who he was.

And, possibly, why he was here—if he even knew himself. He and Taylor hadn’t exactly discussed in detail.

Frank knew how long these things could take. He resisted the urge to check his phone. He knew both were watching him for the same thing.

He just had to play along, and pretend the night in Minneapolis hadn't happened. That the close call in New York was a coincidence. Taylor was too careful.

Most of the time, anyway.

As far as either Zac or Isaac knew, there was no damning final evidence to prove it was him—had been him all this time. But their equally inquisitive gazes—one earnest and open, the other defiant—there was no escaping the stench of truth in the air.

Frank would just have to make nice until Taylor returned. The thought of finally getting some alone time with him, away from the sarcastic beer bash gave him the strength to get through this very awkward exchange.

Fortunately, Taylor was not the only one among them gifted with the ability make the best of nothing and recover awkward situations.

"Hey man, thank you so much for the feedback. I have some things I can show you if you'd like to hear them?"

 

* * *

 

Though he was well aware how long it could take to greet fans, Frank fidgeted between chuckles and banal chatter. A few more bottles cracked open though he continued to nurse his.

At long last, Taylor returned. He grabbed a beer, set himself on a sofa opposite Frank, and folded his legs into a perfect cross seated position. His movements were fluid and singular, as though he had choreographed it.

"We usually go together, or at least take closer turns," Taylor explained when Isaac slipped from the room, "But L.A. moves on its own time."

Zac smirked and raised his drink in a mock cheer. He’d advanced from a Redbull to Jack, neat. "To Hanson time!"

Taylor rolled his eyes. "It's an inside joke with our fans. It’s because they uh...have to exercise a lot of patience," he offered. "It just...stuck."

"Because it's true. We never finish anything on time." Zac leveled his gaze at Frank.

Metaphor, indeed.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some gophers and a safe ride home.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/158117005@N03/42003747711/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

 

 

If the time spent backstage could be measured in beer sips and uncomfortable silences, Frank could have found entirely other kinds of fortune.

Taylor only stalled long enough after Isaac returned to clap shoulders and reaffirm the next day’s itinerary before touching Frank’s elbow.  He jerked his head toward the door.

"You ready?"

Frank would have dropped the remnants his room temperature Heineken if it hadn't already been set half-forgotten on a nearby table. Even something as simple as a flip of Taylor’s hair set his pulse racing.

Frank wanted to be embarrassed and chide himself, but he knew that the women waiting outside all wanted the same thing; felt the same way.

Frank didn't fight the rush in his cheeks when Taylor tightened his grip, leading him toward the front of the venue. He glanced back.

"I know we just had a couple beers, but..." he started.

Frank nodded before the words fully registered. "Yeah, absolutely. Let's get out of here."

Even with Frank's considerable longevity and livelihood anchored in the City of Angels, he sometimes found it hard to imagine and fully understand how walkable certain neighborhoods were. In a metropolis crisscrossed by dozens of highways and populated with glittering Maseratis, it's easy to forget that in the historic core of the city, in all the pockets of legendary and history making, that some of the best gems were buried in the rubble just around the corner.

It only took a few minutes to reach the Golden Gopher, with its garish neon red sign over a black tile facade. He had been here a few times, but not many. Not enough to be known.

Behind Taylor, ever the showman, Frank couldn’t help but notice a distinct change in his gait. Crossing the threshold, Taylor’s hips shifted from a comfortable saunter to a distinguished swagger.

Frank went to move to a booth almost slid in, relishing in the privacy of the dim lights. Miniature gophers stood sentry on each lamp fixture and available corner, their eyes more inquisitive than judgmental. Frank would rather trust them with their discretion than wandering eyes and long ears at the bar.

Soft fingers circled Frank’s wrist. “Let’s stay up here. It’ll be fine.” He gently squeezed, just a touch on Frank’s pulsepoint, before he slid onto a barstool.

“I’ll take a mule, please,” Taylor started. “Tito’s. Extra lime.”

Frank eased into his own seat. “A rum and diet please. House choice,” he attempted his best charming wink to the mustachioed barkeep, but he’d already turned and begun their orders with nothing more than a grunt.

Frank wanted to sit and look calm and cool, like Taylor in his element among the rich wood accents and half-lit room, his iPhone casting a glow almost as blue as his eyes on his face. But all he could manage was a slouch and keeping a mental tally of headcounts and the nearest exit. He did not like having his back exposed.

Frank’s phone vibrated just as their drinks arrived. He flicked open the notification and rolled his eyes.

“Really, man? Instagram?”

Taylor shrugged, but a blush crept up over the edge of his copper mug along with his arched eyebrows. “It’s a good decoy. Gets the crowd away from the venue. If anyone’s still working, it’ll draw them away. I didn’t tag it,” he added in afterthought.

Then, after a heartbeat: “You have alerts on for me?”

Frank filled his mouth rum—too much, but enough that he didn’t have to answer. It burned. He winced.

Taylor’s smirk remained, all-knowing. He crossed his legs again.  

“You really going to spend your baby brother’s birthday with me?”

Something in Taylor’s demeanor deflated. His cast cast down into the mug. He stirred it, but the lime crowding it muffled the comforting clink of ice. “He’s not my most baby brother—that’s the one you met earlier.”

“Oh.”

“But Zac is…,” he stopped to sip. “He’s just his own person. And I’m not the same person he is.”

Frank understood coded speech when he heard it. “I can imagine that many people you meet expect you to be the same. All three of you, I mean.”

Something choked Taylor’s brassy voice but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. We get that a lot. People confuse ‘brothers’ for ‘clones.’”

As a solo artist, with his younger siblings safe at home, Frank couldn’t relate. Taylor’s gaze dimmed, distancing itself from the conversation and the present moment.

He perked up again just a moment later, before Frank could respond or think of something else to say. “At any rate, Zac wants to do his own thing tonight, and, he knows L.A. is kind of...my own thing,” he continued. “He has enough attention today.”

The rum and beer in his stomach had numbed his nerves just enough. He reached forward. His fingers grazed Taylor’s forearm. “And what about you? Do you have enough?”

A heavy moment passed. Taylor’s jaw worked and chewed beneath him, nashing on the citrus in his cocktail. Frank double-checked the marked exits. His heart raced, even as he remained still and sipped his own drink. _Don’t do this to me. Not now._

Taylor took another healthy swig of his mule and then motioned to the barman.

“Jameson, please. One for each my friend and I.”

The bartender only offered one shifty glance before turning around and reaching for the bottle on the back bar.

The shots slid over to their respective seats in perfect tempo with the bar’s atmosphere and crowd coverage.

Taylor nudged a shot glass toward Frank and lifted his own. Frank did the same in kind, though inwardly groaning: he knew better than to mix liquor.

Their toasts were silent.

Taylor’s eyes never left Frank’s.

 

* * *

 

  


“Thank all of the gods and heavens above for Uber.” Frank wiggled next to Taylor in the back of the Nissan. Tucked into an arm, the leather’s scent wafted to him, homely and rich.

He should have ignored the arm draped over his side and the fingers intertwined with is. He should have checked they were hidden in the shadows and not revealed by the streetlights as they zig-zagged their way across the city.

He _shouldn’t_ have been checking the driver’s gaze every few seconds.

If Taylor would _get off his damn phone_ , Frank thought, they’d be easy enough to hide in the dark, leaving the driver none the wiser.  Fortunately they had been smart enough to just hail a regular UberX instead of a Luxe.

With Frank prone and nestled in the crook of Taylor’s arm, the alcohol swirling between them, and the quiet comfort of it reminded him of the first night they met, back in Minneapolis. In many ways, the situation was wildly different, yet it still felt familiar.

Comfortable.

All the same, Frank considered their respective roles and how they had turned. Until now, Taylor had been the one to hide faces and pay cash to avoid paper trails. Now he dragged Frank along—an all too willing participant—unbothered about who could see them, or what they could be seen doing.

Taylor’s eyes shifted and met Frank’s gaze, and only then did Frank realize he had been staring openly at his friend for a few long minutes. Taylor cocked a brow and smiled knowingly.

His hand, large and rough from decades of playing, gently squeezed Frank’s. He stroked his thumb along the edge of his palm.

The darkness of the car’s backseat and the angle of their faces to each other brought Frank back again to the night they met. Faces half-hidden in shadows. Something about Taylor had seemed familiar at the time, but back then, all white boys looked the same. Especially closeted ones.  
  
But not this one.

“You’re stunning.”

It fell out of his mouth before he thought to stop himself. He didn’t think he would have if his brain wasn’t sloshed.

Taylor’s smirk fell. Recognition flashed in his eyes. He slipped his phone into his pocket.

Even now, shrouded in darkness and lit only by passing streetlights from behind, Frank could feel Taylor’s gaze flicker over his face and drop to his lips.

Their first kiss had happened in the same rush; the final now-or-never moment of bodies pushing together and fumbling to find purchase and fit together correctly. But it had been chaste and nervous.

This time, there was no mystery or uncertainty. Taylor’s mouth was gentle yet still eager. His lips ghosted across Frank’s. He tasted the Jameson and lime on Taylor’s breath when he parted his own to let him in.

The hand clutching his own let go and snaked around Frank’s shoulders, pulling him in. Pressing their chests together.

Heartbeats thrummed. Frank couldn’t tell whose was which.

The softness of Taylor’s mouth felt too good to be true; it always did. Frank pressed his tongue in, exploring the same crevices he had many times in the past. He knew them by heart, yet they always felt more alluring and exciting each time.

Taylor’s other hand dropped to Frank’s hip and grasped him. With his intensity, Frank couldn’t tell if he was pushing away or holding him down.

Frank slid his hand up Taylor’s neck and threaded through his hair. He smiled against Taylor’s mouth as he recalled the first time he ran his hand through it. It was the same, and still so much better.

Frank massaged tiny circles on his companion’s scalp. Taylor’s breath hitched. Frank claimed the moment of vulnerability to press Taylor into the backseat, lowering him against the driver side door.

He lifted up for a moment to readjust and shift his body weight. Taylor looked up at him, hair tousled and pupils wide, his cheeks flushed as a dopey smile spread across his face. He squeezed Frank’s hip even tighter, his lids flitting wider when Frank hissed.

Frank froze for a moment, enraptured. The sight and sensation of Taylor beneath him never ceased to arrest him, even in the back of an Uber where they were most certainly violating traffic safety laws. Taylor was taller, stronger, and bigger—but he melted and buckled under Frank’s touch. Every time.

Frank immediately wondered what would happen if they were stopped. Beyond the drama of finding two male public figures getting hot and heavy in the back of a car, the situation would have been further complicated by the fact that the _out_ one was a black male.

The thought sobered him up just enough to pause.

Taylor, mistaking the reticence as an invitation, reached to graze Frank’s jaw when they both rolled forward and fell on the floor of the backseat.

Between gasps and half-breathed swearing, they fumbled under the frown of their Uber driver— _Oscar_ , Frank recalled.

“Hey, um. We’re here.”

Taylor, at least, had the humility to blush. Again. He recovered himself enough to climb back into the seat before climbing out, raking a hand to straighten his hair and disguise the redness on his face.

Frank looked back at Oscar, who was clucking his teeth and muttering to himself.

A reflex activated in Frank. He slipped a bill from his wallet and handed it to Oscar.  It was crisp and stiff—at least a fifty—but he didn’t look to check and didn’t quite care.

“I won’t tell corporate you slammed on the brakes,” he winked.

Oscar clucked his tongue again but took the bill. “Yeah, crazy how a coyote just darted out like that. I appreciate it.”

“Thanks for the ride, I guess. Have a good night, Oscar.”

His window was almost up as he peeled away, but open just enough to hear: “I’m sure you’ll have a better one, _Jordan._ ”

Taylor had already buried his nose into his phone again. Even on this block of Wilshire, cutting deep into the Westside of L.A., he didn’t quite belong; his haircut and highlights too Valley and the clothes too hipster. Then again, Frank didn’t either.  Not at this time of night.

Frank waited. He took a deep breath, collecting himself, setting his hands on his hips.

Because he was thinking with his dick now and fueled by both adrenaline and alcohol, it felt like hours before Taylor acknowledged he was there. He shook his head at Frank and threw up a hand exasperatedly. “So...where are we going?”

Frank pulled a face at Taylor’s own. “Don’t start with me, man. I just saved our asses from showing up on TMZ. _Your_ ass, specifically.”

Taylor’s face didn’t fall. It froze. The accusation hung heavy in the air between them, chilling the moment despite the autumn heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious about the geography:
> 
> * **The Golden Gopher is a real place**. I mistakenly thought it was a dyke bar and found out it was just a cute kitschy place downtown. It's run by a bigger hospitality company but isn't too bad. It really is just a couple blocks from the venue that ITZ played during MOE last October. It was too perfect of a setting.
> 
> * **Wilshire Boulevard** spans from downtown Los Angeles all the way to Santa Monica and cuts through all the bougey neighborhoods between. It's a really big part of L.A. history. Many Angelenos navigate using just cross streets and specific zip codes, so I wanted to reference it this specific way.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexa, keep it chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't know where this was heading, this is your last chance to get out.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/158117005@N03/28131648238/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

 

  
  


The fewer words they spoke, the tighter the tension grew between them. Each of Frank's steps shuffled more than the one before it; as he began hardening and thoughts barreled down one tunnel in his mind. He was too frustrated with Taylor’s ambivalence to speak.

The rest of the walk toward his loft ached. Ahead of him, Taylor hunched deeper into his jacket, his fists tight balls in his pockets, bulging through the seams. Frank tried not to stare, but that said nothing for where the images in his mind went to.   
  
They had already wined and dined—this would not be the same as it had been before.   
  
His keycard, for once, didn't slip or fail. The hallway was dim, not quite as dark as the bar. Light still pooled into his foyer.    
  
Frank walked past a sensor. A few essential lights in the kitchen and living room blinked on.   
  
They revealed a living space extravagant in its simplicity. Clean, sharp corners of furniture, all a rich brown and accented in black, white, and gold.   
  
A floor-to-ceiling corner window faced east and north. The skyscrapers of downtown, just a few miles away, were crowded by the comforting rolls and hills of the Santa Monica peaks to the north and the copses of development in between. Koreatown, Mid-City, West Hollywood.

Where the Hollywood sign slumbered in darkness on Mount Lee, lights in the hills blinked around it, a reminder that Los Angeles would always be a city that sleeps. And all the icons residing beneath it needed their beauty rest—to reclaim their private lives and reconnect with their own humanities.   
  
Not all of them. Not tonight, anyway.   
  
The growl in his voice surprised both of them when Frank next spoke.   
  
"Alexa, keep it chill."   
  
Chillstep faded in, leveling at an ambient volume. Wordless voices cooed and soft piano-style synths cascaded over gentle beats.    
  
Taylor stood next to the windows, his eyes settling on each pocket of life in the metropolis spread out before him. He glanced over his shoulder at Frank's voice.   
  
They stood still, silently facing off. His hands remained stuffed in his pockets and his body stock still, he slaked his gaze up and down Frank. Twice.   
  
And then, without a word, slid past Frank toward the front door.   
  
Panic rose in Frank's throat, a vile mixture of acid and beer. He'd worked too hard for this. They had both waited too long. Watching Taylor literally walk right to, and out, the door where he had just willingly walked into would have been too much. Unbearable.   
  
Frank followed hot on his heels, his mind scrambling how to convince Taylor to stay without sounding desperate or coercive when he collided with his shoulder blades.    
  
The door had shut—with Taylor still on the inside of it, and his hand on the deadbolt. A smile played on his face, just on one corner, far too gentle for the ache in Frank’s groin.

They stood like that for too long. The game, though unspoken, was clear: locking the door meant no going back. No running away. No hiding and ghosting. While relief soothed the panic in his throat, the suspense would rupture him if something wasn't done soon. He'd beg if he had to.   
  
Frank had only halfway opened his mouth, promises of worship hanging off his tongue, when Taylor clicked the lock, his eyes watching every lick and flash of teeth.   
  
For one more moment, the implication hung in the air, enhancing the pheremones and humid desire—but the game had changed.   
  
Frank had won.   
  
Slowly, the other corner of Taylor's mouth curled upward. His crows’ feet followed; crinkling. Frank squirmed on the inside and hoped it didn’t show.

Their gazes locked, just for one quick second, just long enough for Frank to capture Taylor’s full smile right when he sprung into action.   
  
Frank gasped as he was shoved unceremoniously against the wall. Taylor growled into his neck. His tongue soothed Frank's skin in equal measure as his teeth pulled on it, mistaking Frank's grunts for pleasure.   
  
A knee slipped between Frank's thighs and Taylor pressed his hips into him, pinioning him against the wall. Goosebumps prickled up along his arms and neck and he knew that Taylor's half-mast cock was not a deception of his tight jeans.     
  
Taylor gripped Frank's waist—his fingers digging in possessively. Frank bucked his hips once by reflex, shifting his weight to rest on Taylor's thigh.   
  
He'd have bruises in the morning.

In the back of his mind, Frank recalled stories and rumors—accounts of a moody power bottom with ice blue eyes that called the shots and scarcely uttering a word. Thunder and lightning that shook the bed but rolled out by morning without a trace.   
  
It wasn't the Taylor that Frank knew and remembered. And he didn't want to become another statistic—filling, but unsatisfying.   
  
But for all intents and purposes, here he was; pressing a partner against the wall. Exploring with everything and leaving nothing but throbbing want and contusions.   
  
Frank's head thudded against the wall, leaving his neck exposed. The roughness of Taylor’s tongue surprised him in the back of his mind—so unlike his sweet voice onstage.   
  
He withered and whimpered, shuddering under his partner's grasps and bites. There were no lies told in that Taylor knew how to please—to subdue.   
  
It took a considerable effort of both sheer force and conscious willpower to place his hands on Taylor's shoulders and push away, even as he gripped the supple leather of his jacket. Frank had not imagined Taylor's size. True to the life of a working musician—namely a pianist and drummer—Taylor resisted with relative ease and considerable strength.   
  
The pair struggled for a moment, Taylor dipping his head time and again to taste and reach for more, his layered mane tickling Frank’s forehead, and Frank gasping for breath, wishing that he could just be devoured whole. If this was the way he would go, he gladly submitted to his fate.   
  
But Taylor finally came up for air, panting, relaxing in Frank's grip. He flexed his thumbs, teasing the tender flesh of Frank's waist he had bruised just moments prior.   
  
Frank inhaled; a cleansing, deep breath. He re-settled his nerves and ignored the hormones screaming in the back of his mind for  _ more _ .    
  
But something else niggled in the back of his mind.

“Wait.” He licked his lips and closed his eyes.   
  
Taylor watched. His eyes flashed dangerously, intense and hungry.  _ Hurry up. _   
  
"I'm not like the toys—the boy toys—you buy in New York. I know what's up. You really gonna do this to me?"   
  
Taylor narrowed his eyes and he frowned. His rockstar mask slipped over his face; brow crunched, haughty and standoffish.   
  
His hands gripped Frank's waist even tighter—if they had been further north, toward his ribs, he may have coughed from shortness of breath. Tension corded through his arms and shoulders, anchoring them to a square stance.   
  
Taylor stepped closer and dipped his head. The slight sting of the alcohol on his breath warmed Frank’s lips.   
  
Frank knew how to Google. In his readings and lurking, he recalled a silly fact that fans gushed about: the size of Taylor's head. His height just a couple inches superior to Frank's, his broader frame and skull and touchably lush hair, cast in hard-edge shadow from the lamp behind him, suddenly felt like six.   
  
A flutter rose from Frank's stomach to his chest. It held there for a moment, suspended in sweet disbelief; before crashing back to the base of his core and igniting it. Heat radiated from Taylor, though he remained in stone cold silence. This was his game: silent and moody, but exacting complete control.   
  
Frank had his own tricks.    
  
He lifted his head from the wall. Nose to nose, just millimeters apart. Taylor's eyes twitched, but he said nothing as his stare cooled to ice.   
  
Frank pushed. "You know me better than that."   
  
The right button.    
  
Frank hadn't meant to whimper when Taylor closed the space and pressed their faces together, his tongue tracing the edges of his teeth—he had forgotten anything he could have said to antagonize Taylor further.   
  
To bring him closer.   


Taylor's fists balled and clutched fistfuls of Frank's jacket and shirt. He grunted, and after a few awkward tugs on his neck did it dawn on Frank that Taylor was trying to remove them. His clothes.   
  
He pulled back. An audible smack popped when their mouths separated, and they shuddered in unison—adorable in most any other situation. Taylor's head fell backward, now clutching Frank's shirt collar for balance. The dim light behind flashed dewy on his skin.   
  
Taylor's hair hung loose and shook when he moaned, his eyes screwed shut and his jaw slack. Frank's leather squeaked in his grasp. He clenched his thighs around Frank's.   
  
"You okay, man?"   
  
Frank stroked his thumbs over Taylor's fists, but he was only calming himself.  They stood there for a long moment; Taylor blinking at the ceiling and Frank watching him. Frank resisted counting the seconds, and instead focused on pacing his breaths with Taylor's—deep, but quiet; as though counting down before leaping off a building.   
  
Finally, Taylor rolled his head forward, eyes watery. He released his grip on Frank's jacket and cupped his face. The touch was tender—an involuntary shudder ran down Frank's spine—but his bright gaze belied him. Taylor tilted his head, and Frank couldn't read his facial expression between inquisitive or calculating.   
  
Taylor blinked: he withheld tears. Frank wanted to be confused, to push back and suck the air out of Taylor's lungs like he had tried to do just moments before, but he knew all too well the confusion that swam in his eyes and claimed the words in his throat.   
  
Frank had been there, too, once. The certainty that could not be undone, even behind closed doors.    
  
Tension and palpable pity rested heavily between them, threatening to dampen the moment. Frank could have used words and soothing touches, he could have reaffirmed that the doors were locked and no one could see into his windows at this height—that no one was looking.   
  
But when he opened his mouth to assuage the tears, Taylor leaned back in.   
  
"I give. I always give," he whispered. A roughness scraped along the edge of his voice—a huskiness that no performance-based laryngitis could imitate.   
  
He pulled his hands free from Frank's and dropped them back to his hips. He peppered feather-soft kisses along his jaw.

One hand guided Frank backward toward the living room, and the other deftly worked at his belt buckle, dropping the waist of his jeans just far enough. The backs of his legs bumped against a chaise lounge. He collapsed into it, the armrest awkwardly jutting into his back.    
  
When he readjusted his position, Taylor was smiling at him again, with that glint in his eye—the one Frank knew that shined in his own in the back of the Uber not thirty minutes before.    
  
No further words were needed, but still Frank nodded. He assisted when two hands were required, while maneuvering into a more comfortable position and disrobing themselves, wriggling out of tight sleeves and ripping at buttons until all that was left were half-fastened jeans. No relocation —the bedroom was too far . Somewhere along the way, Frank closed his eyes and submitted to Taylor's roaming hands and eager touches.   
  
He opened them again when Taylor cupped him, carefully poised over his groin. The calluses on his thumb grazed the base of Frank's cock, stroking, and Frank knew right then, over his arching back and between his hisses, that he was lost.   
  
Taylor's strokes slowed enough so that Frank could catch his breath, but not enough to let him stop writhing. Frank fought for control, knuckles white on the armrests. He had dreamed of this moment, watching the planes of Taylor's pale shoulders flex as he lowered himself.   
  
The tears had dried on his face, sticky and shiny, and he dipped his chin. A sliver of frustration flashed through Frank—he wanted to make it even shinier.   
  
"I just want to take. For once."


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank discovers how easily Taylor blushes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for any editing errors. I have never had any huge issue with gdrive until _this_ story happened, so right now for some reason it's not saving my text correctly, and I just want to get this posted asap. There are some cringey sentences in here I wouldn't usually post publicly. Over the next couple weeks between this and wrapping up the whole event I'll comb over it again and fix errors. It's unusual/rare that I post anything without a beta, I'm just worried about losing this text, even if I have it saved elsewhere.

 

 

 

* * *

Frank recalled hours he spent on DataLounge, tracking people down, sending anonymous messages with one hand and his mind halfway elsewhere.   
  
He had dreamt of this moment, but nothing had prepared him. Not the other men, not his past loves, none of the experiments or moments of imagination or even those whom he poured sugar of all kinds onto.   
  
Many lustful comments on message boards—gay and straight alike—had mused over the tenderness of Taylor's lips, how their perfect bow had not thinned in twenty years and how practiced they must have been.    
  
With his lips gently sealed around Frank’s shaft, Taylor flexed his tongue. His eyes flicked up to Frank’s gaze. No longer swimming with tears, the bright confidence had returned to them. One brow twitched upward.  
  
_ Cocky bastard. _

Frank recalled all the moments in those self-important documentaries he and his brothers produced, of him coaching the others on vocal techniques. How to shape their mouths for the best sound.   
  
How to breathe.   
  
Move their tongues.   
  
How to control.   
  
Much like his first love—music—Taylor's velvety mouth caressed Frank, thoroughly exploring each vein on the shaft and crease of his glans.

And, much like his own true mistress, Frank submitted to it. He clenched his glutes, cording his thighs. They mimicked Taylor’s own shoulders from minutes before, now fully relaxed and focused on the task at hand. 

Frank’s keens cut through the air. He held back from bucking his hips, allowing Taylor to fully explore and taste without interruption. _ It's just fellatio, _ he thought. _ I'm just getting my dick sucked. _ His shave grazed and buzzed against the supple leather, cool on his warm scalp.

Still, he couldn’t resist pushing Taylor just a bit further. He said he wanted to  _ take,  _ after all.  
  
“You really like taking this, don’t you?”   
  
Both eyebrows arched this time. Taylor’s stare was serious, all business, but the workings of a crooked smile played at the corners of his lips, pulled thin from their seal around Frank's cock. He grunted, once, and set back to work.    
  
For a moment, neither spoke nor made any other move. Taylor worked at a rhythm, half the speed of the music. Wet slurps punctuated on the downbeat every few measures. Frank bit back his moans, gathering the tension and energy in his chest, saving it for…

“Wait.”

He couldn’t quite reach Taylor’s hair to pull him back, so Frank slid backward, pulled himself upwards to a fully seated position, legs straddling the lounge. Taylor went to follow until the cock popped out of his mouth. He glanced up Frank, eyes wide and confused. He remained on all fours on the lounge, his mouth hung open and dribbling. 

Frank smiled. Five minutes before, Taylor had clawed and growled, tearing at Frank’s clothes and pressing against the wall—taking what he wanted and leaving no prisoners. And now, his lower lip trembled and his belt hung loose.

He had tasted.  Now he wanted more.

Frank reached forward and traced Taylor’s lip, wiping the spots of pre-cum that dripped onto his chin. He remained stock still, moving only his eyes as Frank slipped the tip of his finger into Taylor’s open mouth, just inside the bottom lip.

Taylor moved his jaw, maneuvering to take the whole digit in his mouth. Frank stopped him, pressing a free hand against his mouth. He shook his head.

“Hold still.”

He slid forward again, moving his body as close as he could get without having to lean back. Their shoulders pressed together. Frank slid his palms down Taylor’s ribcage, to his waist, and then slipped under the denim slung on his hips. He pushed them off, slowly, relishing each muscle twitch and smoothing each goosebump that rose. Frank worked the jeans off, taking care to slide them under Taylor’s knees, one at a time, so he wouldn’t lose his balance. 

Over his shoulder, Taylor’s breath hitched. He gripped the sides of the lounge, white-knuckled.

Frank slid backward again, removing his own pants, casting them to the same pile as Taylor’s. He took a moment to drink in the sight before him. Taylor’s many chokers and necklaces clinked softly as they swung in time with his breaths. His erection, too, swung in time with the jewelry. It wobbled to and fro, finding equilibrium. Frank smiled at the sight, recalling past adventures. Those had made him laugh at the comedy, yet an innocent charm cast over Taylor’s stark nakedness—Frank’s smile was appreciative, not mockery. 

"Taylor," he breathed. Frank realized, once the word fell out, how good it felt in his mouth, how much he had longed to say it. Something finalized by uttering his name. "You're beautiful. Simply beautiful."

Taylor was no stranger to compliments. Frank held no delusions that Taylor wasn't aware of precisely how attractive he was. It was half the reason he and his brothers had sold so many millions of records. Yet his lashes fluttered and a bright flush crept up his cheeks. His gaze dropped and he chewed the far end on his lip: it was the first time he had  _ felt _ it in awhile.

He could have sat for much longer just to observe and appreciate. Alone, it could have sated him. A living Adonis kneeled on his chaise lounge as though sculpted directly from fantasy. Only the light sheen of sweat and Taylor’s roaming eyes, taking in everything Frank had to offer, were any indication he was more than perfection.

Yet Frank was not the one who needed release tonight. When necessary, he could easily get what he wanted. Taylor had fewer options and less opportunity to explore.

Frank stood. He tapped Taylor’s shoulder and nodded once. “Get comfortable.”

He turned and rummaged in a sideboard tucked away in the corner, hidden in the shadows away from the broad window, the very same Taylor had towered in, now presenting himself wide open to the world, to anyone who dared to peek inside. At fifteen stories up, it wasn’t likely, but still an exciting prospect. Frank swaggered a little extra, mimicking Taylor’s gait in the bar earlier, just in case. 

Behind him, muffled squeaks of skin against leather sounded as Taylor adjusted his position.

“No peeking.”

“I’m not.”

Frank had grabbed a small handful of the condoms he stored and wasted no time tearing a wrapper and snapping a rubber over the device in his hand. He squeezed a liberal glob of lube on his hands, gently rubbing his palms to warm it. 

Taylor had shifted from all fours on his hands and knees to his elbows which spread his glutes just enough to tease. From Frank’s vantage point, he was a sight to behold. Perfect color in all the right places, and a set of glutes that Frank had never seen on a white boy before, at least not without implants.

The body hair was an especially nice touch. It was almost like a secret—Frank couldn’t remember any publicity photo of Taylor with anything less than a tank top and full-length jeans. Tight ones, but they still covered this. 

Frank inched up to Taylor, pressing against him from behind. He traced a finger slowly up one hamstring even as his own thighs grazed against him. Taylor shuddered. Frank wondered if some part of him enjoyed being so publicly obvious; if Taylor was ashamed of his own masculinity.

“Frank. Please.”

Frank’s dopey smile widened, broad and predatory. “Do you trust me?”

“Just—”

“Taylor.” Frank dropped some weight in his voice, levying authority.

As best as he could, Taylor looked over his shoulder. His pupils, partly hidden through his cascading bangs, were wide, but the irises matched the night sky outside. Endless.

“As much as you trust me.”

A challenge that Frank was all too happy to meet.

With his gaze still locked with Taylor’s, he slid the tip of the plug inside. It was small, and so his sphincter quickly secured around it, leaving only the curbed knob visible. 

Taylor gasped. “Is that glass?”

Frank ignored him and resumed caressing his thigh. He wedged his own erection close between them as he pulled against Taylor’s hip. He reached around front and palmed the base of Taylor’s cock, closing his lubricated fingers around its girth. He held it, stroking his thumb, but did not pump.

Taylor mumbled something, his face pressed into a pillow. His lost words faded into a deep moan. Frank felt every muscle of his legs tighten against his own and Taylor bumped back into Frank’s pelvis.

Frank slipped his palm up and down Taylor’s shaft, slowly at first. He took his time exploring, leisurely scoping each fold and vein. It was not his first time with this particular member, but with the blindness of his position, he thoroughly enjoyed re-familiarizing himself with the topography. Frank increased his speed only when Taylor moaned.

Taylor figured out the object of the game quickly. At first, he had mewled, his voice warbling and waning when Frank reached the next threshold. Frank encouraged with a squeeze on Taylor’s hip or his own indiscernible mumbles.

Before long, however, Taylor’s moans graduated to wails, his famous octave-jump belts projected high into the ceiling, echoing off the walls when he flung his head back. He pressed himself firmly against Frank, his fists balled tight and clutching blankets and pillows.

“ _Frank_ , ” Taylor cried. His voice strained, tense, but it didn’t crack. “I’m close.”

If he had already penetrated, Frank would have forgotten himself. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t. 

Frank deftly removed the glass plug with one hand and slowed his fevered strokes to a crawl with the other. 

Taylor writhed, awkwardly trying to reach down and behind him by instinct. His arm twisted and he growled in frustration. “What did you do that for?”

Frank had already torn another condom wrapper, this time wrapping himself.

Finally free of Frank’s grasp, Taylor lifted himself up on one arm to face him. His face flush and sweaty, panting, his expression twisted between inquisitive and desperate. 

“Turn over,” Frank instructed. “I want front row for the best part.”


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about chokers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don't know why the header won't align correctly. I give up!)

 

 

 

* * *

 

It took only a quick fumbling of limbs and Taylor flipped over onto his back. He grabbed the back of his knees and pulled them toward his chest.

Frank wanted to stop Taylor’s hands, to pull them away, and let him lower and extend a leg that would present his divine, glistening phallus in the best light. He imagined trailing a fingertip from Taylor’s clavicle to his ankle, to tickle every hair and kiss every freckle and mole along the way. He could hear the purrs, feel them rumble like an earthquake under his palm. Frank’s fingers twitched at the thought of Taylor writhing under his touch, of lapping up each drop of sweat along the way. He wanted to smooth each hair and goosebump, to draw the moment out as long as Taylor’s wails, to feel his abs flex when he arched his back while Frank sucked him dry. Frank recalled just how sweet Taylor tasted, so unlike most of the others, and he craved it.

But Taylor’s eyes had darkened. Between his knees, his red face shined and sweat locked his bangs together. He was spread wide, member flopped to one side.

It was a quick flash, just one beat—Taylor’s perineum twitched in time with Frank when his cock surged at the sight before him, and every image and want vanished from his mind.  
  
Frank leaned forward and settled in. He straddled the lounge, his erection flush against Taylor’s crease. He lifted his heels, toes dug into the carpet, his knees supporting Taylor’s hips. The angle of the chairback and the length of the lounge gave him the view he wanted—it would take more work, but it was worth it to watch Taylor’s face.

Frank slipped closer. With one hand, he applied more lubricant. With the other, he pulled Taylor’s thigh against his chest. He trailed his palm up and down, ghosting above the thick hairs. He pressed his lips against a bare spot on Taylor’s inner thigh.

Taylor moaned and curled his toes, pressing his heels into Frank’s shoulder blades. With each hand he clutched himself and the side of the lounge. His nostrils flared. He flexed his hand around his own cock.

Frank could feel Taylor’s pulse against him, his readiness and fervor nearing climax. He shuddered himself—knowing that Taylor craved him, _needed_ him was almost enough. Almost.

Frank grasped his own shaft and pressed the head against Taylor’s opening. Even under the thick layer of lube and latex, his precum oozed inside the condom.

“You ready?”

Taylor nodded.

Frank pushed against Taylor’s barrier, slipping his glans inside. The sphincter clenched in reflex. Frank hissed. After all these years, all of the teasing and half-baked moments tucked away in Starbucks restrooms and backstage corners, _finally_ feeling him from the inside out was more than he dreamed, and he wasn’t even—

—Taylor clenched his jaw and started pumping his cock.

“How much you want?” Grunts punctuated Frank’s words. He pushed in further, just an inch, and slid back. Taylor hissed, his eyes screwed shut. The hand around his cock twitched and fumbled, darting down to explore, but Frank leaned in and grasped his wrist.

He squeezed, pressing his thumb into Taylor’s palm. “Tell me.”

Taylor flexed then, tightening around Frank’s cock. Any move Taylor made with Frank inside him caressed it like a cool breeze on wet skin, and this moment was no exception. Frank moaned, struggling to keep himself together and to hold off before Taylor reached his peak too.

A long moment passed between them, Taylor panting and flexing his hand in Frank’s grip, and Frank easing himself in and out, in and out.

“Say it. Tell me,” Frank still held the wrist in his hands. Taylor’s fingers twitched, reaching for anything, but curled when Frank pressed his thumb against the pulsepoint again.

Taylor gulped. He wrenched his hand away and latched onto his dick again. He ran his other hand through his soaked hair. “More. Please.”

Frank smiled. He pushed in, an inch further. “Like that?”

Taylor’s head fell back against the seat.  His eyes rolled upwards.

Taylor’s body shuddered, and then he hissed, his teeth clenched and jaw tight. “Yeah. More.”

Frank evened his rhythm, slower than his instincts told him to push.

They rocked together like this, with Taylor grasping and pumping on himself, and Frank pushing just a bit further on each thrust. He judged his depth on Taylor’s response: if he squeaked; Frank would relent. If Taylor moaned, low and animalistic, Frank would hold himself for a moment.

Watching Taylor under him was divinity itself: his eyes closed and jaw slung open in a constant state of near-ecstasy, fat beads of sweat rolling down his neck and dripping off his nose.

Frank had imagined him like this for too long. All of the images of him onstage, lost in the throes of adulation and passion, heated by the stage lights.

This was better.

Frank planted his feet and pushed harder, going as deep as he could. He anchored to Taylor with one hand, an arm wound tightly around his thigh, and braced against his chest with the other.

It was time.

As Frank pushed in, deepening to the base of his shaft, Taylor grunted with each thrust. He released the hold on his own cock and clutched Frank’s forearm. Frank stared in awe, comparing the contrast of their skin, how Taylor’s fingers paled as he clenched, the redness of his face, the sheen of sweat sheathing his body.

“Oh,” he started. His eyes remained closed, eyebrows scrunched. They twitched and flexed with each pull and thrust Frank gave. His Cupids’ bow lips quivered, pulled into a sneer. “Fuck— _fuck_ me.”

If he hadn’t been concentrating so hard, working to remain flush against Taylor’s prostate, Frank may have lost himself right there.  
  
“Say it again.” Frank thrust again, his balls slapping against Taylor. And again. Faster, with ease. He struggled to maintain composure, tightening his grip, clutching Taylor's thick chest hair.

Taylor hissed, a sharp intake, then released and dropped into a growl. Frank thought of where he’d heard it before, in several of his songs, and wondered exactly what had been on his friend’s mind during the take.

In a perfect world, Frank would be the only thing on his mind in the next sessions. He smiled at the idea of Taylor wailing into a microphone, clutching his headphones like he grasped his friend’s cock, channeling every ounce of need and frustration and feeling into the track, releasing only when each shred had been expunged.

“ _Fuck_ me, Frank.”

They had been at, and long past, the point of no return, but something deep inside him switched at that moment. Taylor Hanson begging for something his wife could never provide, slick with sweat and precum and so desperate he could hardly open his eyes, and Frank was gone.

He pounded into Taylor now, going at a fever pitch. Taylor’s grip tightened, his nails digging into Frank’s forearm. Frank’s thighs burned, his calves shook from the exertion, but he could not—would not—stop until—

—Taylor had been shocked into silence at first, struggling to find the right breathing rhythm in sync with Frank’s thrusts. His meek mewls melted into low moans, graduating into deep growls, and finally, long wails that reverberated off the walls.

Taylor moved in perfect intervals, each pitch higher and richer than the one before it, following a perfect pentatonic—Frank counted each note—his crown pressed into the back of the chaise, hair plastered to his temple and forehead.

As they moved, his cock bounced between them, slapping against their abdomens. Taylor’s chokers rattled as they shifted downward with each thrust, falling under his neck, tangling in a web.

“Taylor, I’m—”

“Go. Go. Me too.”

Frank wished his voice commanded more sexiness, but they both spoke in half-breaths and whispers, unable to work around everything churning between them.

Frank closed his eyes and went for the homestretch, pushing as fast as he could without creating additional friction. Perhaps it would have been better to keep them open, to watch the final moment, but he wanted the image of Taylor as he was now burned into his memory.

The sound of wetness splattering across Taylor’s stomach and chest squelched the moment. Frank opened his eyes as he came too, his condom stretched inside. Taylor’s eyes snapped open and darted down as it dawned on him what happened, but Frank had already eased himself out.

Taylor collapsed. He dropped the full weight of his legs on Frank’s shoulders and released his arm. His chest heaved. The pungeness of fresh sex hung in the air, latching to their skin.

For a moment, Frank just relaxed and took in the sight before him while he unwrapped himself. Taylor lied supine on the lounge, one leg draped and an arm behind his head, just like Frank had imagined minutes before.

A dopey smile curled Taylor’s mouth. His eyes had softened, friendly warmth replaced the hunger in them. Frank couldn’t decide which he preferred.

Frank retrieved towels from the linen closet. His legs felt like jelly, but he managed to saunter back to the lounge.

He draped one of the towels on Taylor’s sticky stomach and lowered himself over him again. Frank brought his face within centimeters of Taylor’s. The humidity of his breath tickled the stubble on his jaw.

Frank smiled and gently reached for Taylor’s cock again. Even flaccid, he wanted to hold it every chance he could.

“I think I’m spent for the night,” Taylor said. Cheek to cheek, his breath fluttered against Frank’s ear. Then, with a huff: “I also have a shoot in the morning.”

Frank shrugged and peppered sweet kisses along Taylor’s jaw, just like he had done before. “It’s fine. I’m spent too.” He stared at Taylor’s chin, eyeing the  dime-size glob of cum stuck to it.

Taylor’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Frank grinned and leaned in, reaching for the spot on Taylor’s chin. He lapped it up, tongue scraping against stubble, sucking each morsel. Sweeter rather than salty, just like he remembered.

Frank slid up to Taylor’s mouth and parted his lips with his tongue, twining them together. Taylor grunted, possibly to protest the taste, but a moment later smiled against Frank's mouth.

They pulled away at the same time. Frank rested his head on Taylor’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

They had finally migrated to the bedroom and sprawled across a plush king size bed. Late night History Channel documentaries replaced the chillstep that played before. Both had partially re-dressed; Frank in loungewear and Taylor in his jeans.

Taylor's phone buzzed. He scowled. He started to type when several other notifications pushed through and interrupted him. He swore under his breath and sent a short response.  
  
“I’ll assume from the look on your face that it’s not one of your kids or your wife.” Frank intended his comment to be lighthearted and friendly, but tension framed Taylor’s face.

“No. It’s Isaac. And Zac.” The phone vibrated again, pinging several times. He sighed. “ _And_ our assistant. They’re freaking out about this video tomorrow.”

“Can’t lose track of the pretty boy, can they?” Frank knew it would annoy him, but he couldn’t help it.  
  
Taylor ignored him, typing away. Frank sidled up and snuggled in, draping an arm across Taylor’s middle.

For a short while they remained in that position, Taylor texting furiously with a furrowed brow and Frank gazing at him. He traced the peaks and valleys of Taylor’s bare chest, palming the thick patch of hair. He gently prodded at a few moles and freckles, foolishly thinking of planetary alignment, constellations, and fate.

There was an intimate comfort in  Taylor’s lack of reaction to Frank’s touches. He knew enough from their time together and plenty of lurking over fan gossip that he was known to be physically affectionate, never shying from touching someone’s shoulder or wrapping an arm around someone—even a hysterical fan—for a photo. Frank supposed that with the size of his family, having several curious and hero-worshipping younger siblings, and raising so many babies of his own had made him more comfortable with closeness than the years drowning in a sea of desperate women.

Taylor slipped an arm around Frank without looking away from his phone, as though by rote; a reflex. Frank knew it wouldn’t last, that it would be gone in a few hours, and couldn’t count on it happening again, so he enjoyed what he could, just as he had always done. Tastes and long moments, but never the real thing—if it even existed.

“Does Natalie know?”

“She’s never asked.”

Frank frowned; that wasn’t the first time he’d heard that line from anyone. But something in Taylor’s voice was more casual than he expected.

He lifted his head to ask something else, about the first night he and Taylor had met, all the trouble it had caused—had she really never pushed him after that?

But Taylor was looking at him now, phone forgotten and face down on the bedspread. His face half-hidden in shadow hardened his gaze, but the glint in the one eye Frank could see shined in a new way.

“She’s my best friend, Frank. Of course she knows.”

“What if…?”

“What if, what? I meet someone? Fall in love with a hundred men? Or new women?” Taylor cast his free arm wide, gesturing to the open air. The presenter on the television remained oblivious and unimpressed. “I’m not leaving her. Never.”

Something stung Frank’s heart and it pounded against his ribs. He knew this was the truth, and that he needed to hear it. Still, the implication of Taylor’s words ignited an ember of hope inside him, warming his chest. Taylor had never said so much about his marriage, much less his openness about the future. His hand, still on Taylor’s stomach, twitched.

“That night we—that you and I met...yeah, it was rough at first with her. I was definitely in the dog house for awhile. We almost divorced. But we figured things out. It gave us answers to a lot of questions between us. And it’s what we chose.”

“Jordan Taylor Hanson, are you saying I, the great and powerful and very queer Frank Ocean, saved your arrow-straight marriage?” His tone was light, he felt the mirth in his own expression, but they both sensed the weight of his words.

Taylor brought his hand back down and covered Frank’s on his stomach. A half-smile remained on his face. When Frank blinked, he moved in closer. Quickly, before he fully registered, Taylor landed a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

The gentleness of it did just as much to Frank’s nerves as everything they had just finished doing. Something electric coursed through him, head to toe. He shuddered. Taylor, with his impossibly long arms, reached the edge of comforter with ease and pulled it over them.

He never released Frank from his embrace.

* * *

 

Frank wasn’t surprised to awaken to an empty bed the next morning, but it wouldn’t have been the first time.

He slipped on a T-shirt and padded out into the living room. He closed his eyes on the last step into the area. He counted three deep breaths, his abs screaming on each one, then opened them again.

The living room was immaculate. The chaise lounge was back in its place and spotless, the sideboard wiped off and closed. Frank slipped the drawer open; the toys had been cleaned and replaced. Even the trash cans had been emptied and re-lined.

Frank didn’t know whether to feel disappointment or affection. The room had been reset almost as if it didn’t happen.

But his thighs, and calves, and cock all remembered, each of them tense and upset in their own way.  
  
The eastern sun shone directly in the room, baking everything under the glass. Frank went to draw the blinds.

In the eastern distance, somewhere in the western San Gabriel Valley, a dark gray haze hovered over the city. It was too late in the season for heavy smog or May Gray coverage. 

Frank shook his head and _tsk’_ d. “Damn,” he said. “Wildfires.” He squinted against the bright sun and his own nearsightedness, guessing it was a ridge near Mount Wilson.

He pulled out his phone to check the fire department updates and stepped into the bathroom. He didn’t notice the wooden bead necklace hanging on the door handle until he finished and washed his hands.

Frank recognized it immediately. He recalled how it had been especially loose the night before, slipping and rolling all over Taylor’s neck, freeing itself from the tangle of chokers and caught in his chest hair.

Uncertainty had tensed Frank's shoulders from the time he had awoken until the moment he touched the beads. Frank brought them to his face; they smelled of sticky skin and unwashed hair.

Frank snapped a photo and forwarded it without words or emoji.

The response came back right away, almost too fast.

**Oh, man. Looks like i forgot something. That one is really special to me. I’ll be in san diego tomorrow nite? :) -t**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, gee whiz. I don't even know what to say. This silly old 10k fic about some good ol' jackhammer buttfucking has taught me _so much_ about writing, especially RPF. I'm a little sad it's over, but I'm so happy to have accomplished with it what I did. Special thanks to TiaJuh because I probably would have never finished it, at least not at this rate, without her to bounce ideas off of and reign myself in!
> 
> Also of course thanks to Boozey St John--she's the weirdo who requested this fuck-fest!
> 
> If the end seems a little rushed; that is deliberate for two reasons: 1) so I could finish and get this out ASAP and 2) I opened up some ends to leave room for some one-shots later. I have to take a bit of a break from it for now, but this isn't over yet :)


End file.
